The Memories Never Fade
by letmefallasleep
Summary: SLEEPERS fic. Looks at the lives of John Reilly, and Tommy Marcano before they find Noakes sitting in a bar that fateful night. Child Abuse, Sexual Abuse of a child, etc. Not a happy fic.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Alright, so this is a short first chapter to see if anyone is even interested in reading something like this. This is based off the 1996 movie 'Sleepers', which is an amazing movie. If you haven't seen it, you really should watch it. If I continue, this will be very angsty, in the nature of my older stuff. If you like, review, or I won't continue. This takes place shortly before the events in the second half of the movie.

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><p><em>Ever have one of those days where you feel like you're invincible? Like everything suddenly is perfectly clear, and you understand it all?<em>

_I'm come to realize… those are usually the days when I'm really holding onto my sanity by the skin of my teeth._

_My name is John Reilly. And most days –if I'm lucky –I'm too drunk, or too drugged out of my mind to remember anything other than my name, much less to question my sanity._

_I glanced across the room, where my best friend was sprawled out on the floor, passed out from too much whiskey, or too much cocaine. Maybe both. In a few minutes, I'd shout over to him, tell him to wake up, and make his way over to the bed. We've known each other for a long time; we know better than to try and shake one another awake._

_For the past… Jesus, must be close to ten years now, we've slept back to back. Every night. It ain't some queer homo thing; it's that we know we can't trust nobody but us. I can't sleep in a room by myself, but I don't trust anyone other than Tommy to be a room with me when I sleep._

_Why, you may ask, wasn't I passed out on the floor? After all… I am John Reilly, after all. Cocaine addict, alcoholic, occasional heroin user… Well… I'm not really sure. Halfway through a big ass line of coke, I just… wasn't feelin' it anymore._

_So now here I sit. Scribbling in this stupid notebook. One of over a hundred I've had over the years. Father Bobby –a local priest, and one of the few men I look up to –gave me my first one, two weeks after I finished serving my first jail sentence._

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><p>John Reilly sat back, and let the last traces of his high fade over him, as he glanced around at the shitty apartment he and his best friend, Tommy Marcano, had shared for nearly ten years. It was a small efficiency, far past its prime. The once white walls had faded to a dingy, almost brown color, and the carpet… well, he wasn't even going to try and determine what the color had been. The furniture was probably older than him and Tommy put together, gotten from old bars and hotels. The few dishes they had were piled in the sink, to be washed only when they needed to eat off them. Empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, and to-go bags littered the entire floor, which wasn't much to be honest. The full-size mattress rested on the wall furthest from the door, no sheets, and only a thin blanket, which was more than they needed in the hot summers in Hell's Kitchen. Especially seeing as how neither of the young men slept in anything less than two layers of clothing, including their jackets.<p>

But it was a roof over their heads. It was theirs. A place no one intruded. At least, no one with at least half a brain cell. Most people didn't fuck with Tommy or Johnny; not with them being founding members of the West Side Boys, and easily the group's deadliest members.

John frowned a little. How exactly had that happened? He knew the 'why', but… it still all seemed like a blur when he thought back to the first years after his release from Wilkinson's.

Just the thought of the place sent a small shiver up his spine. He quickly pushed the thoughts away, turning his attention to Tommy, who began groaning, as he rolled over on the floor.

"Hey! Hey, Tommy!" He said loudly, throwing a pen at his friend. "Wake up!"

Tommy Marcano shot up, eyes panicked, and unfocused as he breathed erratically, before his eyes settled on John.

"Shit man. How long was I out?"

John shrugged, as he made his way over to the bed, peeling his boots off his feet as he went. "Dunno. Doesn't really matter. Ain't like we got anything to do tonight," He said tiredly, falling on the bed. Tommy groaned as he stretched, before half-walking, half-crawling towards him.

As was their nightly ritual, they both checked the gun under their pillows, making sure they were loaded, before turning back to back, each one falling asleep with the comfort of the gun in their hand, and a friend they could trust at their back.


	2. Chapter 2

Mikey Sullivan didn't sleep much.

Not that he didn't want to sleep more. But within that two-to-three hour window, the nightmares started. He'd wake up, covered in a cold sweat, heart racing a mile a minute, trying to beat straight out of his chest.

After he woke up, and stumbled over to the sink to splash his face with water –carefully avoiding the mirrors at all costs –he made his way over to his computer. One of the nice things about working for the D.A.'s office, was that they supplied him with a computer.

He would pull up his list of files, and sit there. Staring.

How many times would he have to remind himself that they were just names. Just four, simple names.

_Ralph Ferguson_

_Henry Addison_

_Adam Styler_

_Sean Noakes._

_Sean Noakes._ That was the name that haunted him in his sleep. The face behind the name that appeared every time he closed his eyes. His own personal tormentor. The one he thought about every damn day.

Wilkinson's Home For Boys.

Some days, it seemed like Wilkinson's was only yesterday. The other days, it seemed like he'd never left.

He was never sure how much time he spent staring, before he would finally open the files. But he never stopped reading those files until sun rise. At sunrise, he'd close the files, and slowly make his way to the small bathroom, where he would turn the water up as hot as it would go.

Once he was sure it was hot enough to scald, he'd step inside, and scrub his skin raw. Trying to wash it all off. The memories, the… the dirtiness.

But he never could. He would spend exactly fifty seven minutes in the shower. Didn't matter what time he got in. Wasn't something he timed, or even thought about. But he was always out in fifty seven minutes. Apparently, it took his mind fifty seven minutes to realize, no matter how hard he scrubbed, didn't matter how hot the water was… The feeling of Wilkinson's wasn't ever going away.

Usually, somewhere between his apartment, and the parking garage where he kept his car, he would briefly consider talking to John and Tommy, seeing if they suffered from the insomnia. He knew Shakes didn't. Then again… While Shakes had been through hell with the rest of them… The last six months, after Shakes early release, had been the worst time in Michael's life. Addison –who'd had a thing for Shakes –had decided to join Noakes in torturing Michael. All of the guards tortured all of the boys at some point, but each one had had one boy that he claimed as his own. Once Shakes left…

It was usually about the time he walked into his small office that he shared with another new ADA, that he managed to put it all out of his mind. He could focus on the cases in front of them, and getting justice for the victims assigned to him.

But in those quiet minutes, between cases… That was when it all came back to haunt him.

Reminding him that four evil men were walking free, with no fear of that same justice Michael Sullivan swore to uphold.

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><p>The light shining in the one window of the shitty apartment somehow managed to shine directly in Tommy's face, no matter where they moved the mattress. It was just something he'd grown to accept over the past few years.<p>

But he'd beat it this time. He'd been awake, and out on the fire escape for a smoke long before the sun had decided to make an appearance.

He groaned as he stretched his back, and glanced at his watch. Almost 7:30. John was still sleeping, and since they didn't have to be anywhere until five o'clock in the evening, Tommy figured he might as well let him get some sleep.

He scrubbed his face with one hand, the other flicking his smoke over the rail, before smiling sadly as he actually looked at himself.

Even under the many layers of clothes he wore, nobody would mistake him for anything other than well-muscled, toned and defined. He was a far cry from the tubby, pasty faced little snot he'd been as a kid.

He chuckled darkly. He had changed in more ways than one… Shakes –who he usually seen once every month or so –had just commented on that last week. Used to be, Tommy always had his head in the clouds, always thinking about this superhero or that villain. Trying to act as tough as Mikey, or as smart as Shakes.

Well, he might not be as smart as Shakes, but as far as the 'tough' part… Not a whole hell of a lot of acting involved anymore.

He sighed, flicking his cigarette as far as he could, and lighting another one. It looked like it was gonna be a nice day. Maybe he'd ask John if he minded taking a pit stop before doing the job. Tommy hadn't been to his mother's grave in about two months, which made him twinge with guilt a bit as he thought about it.

It wasn't that he didn't want to go. Everything just got so busy, and time got away from him. He'd loved his mother; been devastated when she'd died halfway through his third jail sentence. He'd been serving seven months in another juvenile facility, when Father Bobby had arrived for a surprise visit to give him the news.

Heart failure. Nobody knew why, but Lucia Marcano's heart had just… stopped. She'd been in the butcher's, waiting to get her usual pastrami loaf, when she'd just collapsed. Nothing anyone could do.

The powers that be wouldn't allow him to go to the funeral.


End file.
